Main menu

Tag Archives: chocolate

Lately, I have been going without – without food, without sex, without much alcohol. “Is there a point to life at all, then?” I hear you ask, and: “Shouldn’t you just be boring old ‘mum’ instead of Drunken Slut Mum, in that case?”

Don’t worry, readers, I haven’t joined some kind of a strict religious sect where all the above are forbidden. I am having a go at ‘that diet’ which requires one to fast two days a week and simply going through a shagging dry spell.

And it’s pretty tough – maybe food without sex would be bearable or even sex without food – if I get to lie down for some of it – but neither is not a good place to be. How does one cope with enforced chastity? Not in the sense of becoming a nun and making a lifelong commitment, just if things aren’t happening in that area at the moment?

And masturbation is off the table too – either because one’s batteries have died and one cannot be bothered going ‘manual’ or because one is testing willpower. Is it possible to divert attention away, entirely, from genital pleasure?

I thought I had found the answer in going for a run – using up pent-up energy, getting sweaty and out of breath and reaping the benefits of a good cardio workout. But no, I have discovered that after a run, despite feeling tired, I get a raging horn and would ideally jump on The Man or perhaps pleasure myself. Apparently this is because exercise increases testosterone levels, which in turn raises our libido.

So how about eating vast quantities of chocolate and drinking wine while lying on a sofa watching a film? Good on the surface, but each cancels the other out – chocolate is good, as it releases the happy drug serotonin and apparently gives similar levels of pleasure as sex (but I would probably need a ginormous bar of the stuff), but wine makes one relax and feel a bit randy if not enough is consumed and, depending on the film, one may feel a little bereft if it ends with a loved-up couple.

Another alternative could be a frantic spring clean of the house. Surely all that scrubbing, dusting and vacuuming is enough to stay busy and keep levels of desire right down. Well, it certainly takes the mind off anything fun, but motivation to actually do it tends to wane. It may be just me, but if I have spent an hour or so cleaning the bathroom, I really can’t be bothered moving on to another room and cleaning it from top to bottom. Maybe I’m a filthy slut, but cleaning the house when no one is coming round to help me mess it up again seems pretty pointless. I also live with two small people who soon return it to a dishevelled mess.

So how to cope with a neglected lady hole? Lie down and stare at the ceiling? Cross one’s legs and grit one’s teeth? Rock back and forth in foetal position, humming quietly? Bake some cupcakes? Get real! Thank God for the invention of vibrators and dildos!

My unique situation with The Man means that very few people know what I get up to in my spare time.

In fact I like to think most would assume I enjoy quiet nights in with a cup of hot chocolate, a good book and a spot of needlecraft or baking. But I am not sure how convincing my image of wholesome rosy-cheeked mum actually is…

And I am not about to test it by throwing in any risky (or even risqué) conversational topics.

But even if I was in a position to reveal all, I am not sure whether it would go down well or create a sea of awkwardness, seeing as none of my peers seem to talk about sex any more. There’s gossip about so-and-so running off with thingummy-jig’s wife, but that’s as far as it goes. I am not sure if this is a by-product of being a certain age or of the majority being in long-term, settled relationships.

I go back about 14 years and a friend I hung around with at that time would be asking: “Did he have a big willy,” or “was he good” or even (after a few ciders) “did he do it up the bum?” She was exceptionally nosy, but then again we felt we could freely discuss these things without too much embarrassment.

In my student days, we also shared most things – clothes, shampoo, funny cigarettes, sex stories, even people. A few of us happened to sleep with the same person and compared experiences. “Did he try that thing on you – the one where he squeezes your bum and bites your bottom lip” – for example…

I also remember a student friend agonising with me about a night spent with someone who had strange lumps on his penis and another who was bitterly disappointed that the person she had pursued for weeks turned out to be abysmal in the bedroom.

With most women I know now having husbands or long-term partners, I imagine it is just not appropriate to talk about their sex lives – especially as their bedfellows are not disappearing out of their lives after one night. But in some ways it would be cathartic or therapeutic to have a no-holds-barred, but completely confidential chat with two or three others, even for reassurance that I am not the only person still obsessed with sex at thirty-ahem-ahem.

As for The Man, he is the paragon of discretion. He seeks no one to share with, not even in the traditional bloke pastime of sitting in the pub boasting to his mates that “I’ve had her – goes like a train” etc. The Man is not that sort of man. He keeps his private life private and if he feels the need to share, I can only imagine he converses with inanimate objects, such as his pots and pans or the rubber duck in his bathroom.

However, as a female, maybe I have an innate need to sound off, get things off my chest, so to speak, and at times, even though I have to hold my tongue, I find it very frustrating. Maybe I will have to get my own rubber duck.